**Diary Entry – 12th May**
I’ve never lived with a mother-in-law—and I’ve no intention of putting up with daughters-in-law under my roof, either.
At fifty-six, I’m content with where life has taken me. After the divorce, I realised my peace of mind matters most. These days, I share a home with a man out in the countryside. We’re happy but chose not to marry—less fuss over inheritance that way. His house is ours, but my city flat remains mine. It’s cosy, familiar, with my favourite sofa, my recipe books, and the scent of morning coffee. I pop back now and then for work, but mostly, I prefer the quiet, the fresh air, the simplicity of life away from London.
My son, Oliver, is twenty-three and lives in my flat. I don’t charge him rent—no need to burden him while he finds his feet. He works, tries his best, or so I thought. Turns out, my expectations and his choices are worlds apart.
This spring, I barely set foot in the city, handling clients remotely. Perfect, until the office summoned me to sign urgent paperwork. I didn’t warn Oliver—just planned to stay overnight, sort the documents, then leave.
But when I opened the door, a stranger stood there—a girl in my dressing gown, hair wrapped in a towel, fresh from the shower. We gaped at each other.
“Who are you, and what are you doing in my flat?” I kept my voice steady, though my temper flared.
She stammered something about Oliver “letting her stay.” My son had moved his girlfriend in without a word, assuming since I “was never here,” it didn’t matter.
My things were everywhere—my clothes, papers, books, makeup. Yet she acted like the lady of the house, blasting the hairdryer, clattering pans, rummaging through the fridge without even offering me tea. I stood there, feeling erased from my own life.
I waited in the kitchen for Oliver. No shouting, just calm words when he arrived:
“Son, I won’t lecture you. But understand this—I won’t have daughters-in-law in my home. Build a life with her? I’m glad. But do it in your own space. Pack your things and go. Where you live isn’t my concern.”
He argued, of course. “Mum, you’re never here! You said the flat would be mine—mine and Sophie’s!”
“After I’m gone, yes,” I said. “But while I’m alive, it’s my home. I won’t walk into my own flat to find strangers treating it like theirs.”
He left. Took Sophie, rented a place. Sulks now, won’t call. Rumor is she calls me “difficult,” claims I “ruined their happy home.” Amusing, really. I never lived under my mother-in-law’s thumb, and I won’t have another woman ruling my domain.
I love my son, but love isn’t endless tolerance. My home is my sanctuary. I’ve fought too hard for too long to hand it over to someone who assumes they’re entitled to it.
Let them learn independence—paying rent, budgeting, scrubbing dishes, settling bills. That’s adulthood. As for me? I want quiet. The right to walk into my flat without tripping over someone else’s laundry or hearing my name whispered in my own kitchen.
No shame in choosing myself. I’ve earned this peace. No daughters-in-law. No sons-in-law. Just my space, my rules.
